


Fire in the Blood

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale has trauma, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma, Excessive Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self Harm by Proxy, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex Pollen, This Gets Really Dark, Trauma Recovery, aziraphale suffers for it, crowley suffers for it, heed the warnings, nothing is excused but they do work through it, the author was going through some stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Heaven and Hell are in disarray, Earth is feeling the consequences.Crowley is hit with a lust curse from a rogue incubus which triggers a series of events that he'll never be able to undo.This fic features explicit rape and the aftermath. It is emotionally ugly. Look after yourselves.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 294
Collections: Bittersweet Good Omens





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [childrenofthesun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/childrenofthesun/gifts).



> I can't say this enough: this fic features explicit rape, trauma, self-hatred, self-harm, ugly emotions, and an ending that is hopeful at best. Please take care when choosing to read this fic. Mind your triggers and mental health.
> 
> Big thank yous to everyone who read this along the way and helped me make it better. Special thanks to D20Owlbear for the title, Insominia for the plot debugging, Robynthemagpie_writes for the endless encouragement, and Sosobriquet for battling through my appalling grammar, inconsistent tenses, and general impatience in order to make the thing readable!
> 
> This is a gift for Childrenofthesun, they know what they did.

In the Beginning, there was the Word, and the Word was good.

At the End, there was no Word, and the void birthed chaos.

Heaven and Hell were decapitated corpses, ambling listlessly and knocking into the walls with no brain to lead. Those who knew what had happened were nowhere to be found, those who found themselves faced with millions of urgent questions had no answers to offer, and those who wanted to know became angry, violent, dissenting. Infighting and rebellion fractured bonds that had weathered millennia of oppression in solidarity. The line between angel and demon blurred into obscurity as new factions formed in the smoking ruins of ethereal realms.

For the most part, Earth was unaffected. The power struggle between celestial and occult forces had never truly considered humanity as a player; they were dismissed as a pawn at best or a playing field at worst.

The one exception to this generalisation was a small but cohesive faction of angels and demons who had shared a similar line of work and now found joy in using their particular gifts to toy with humans. The overlap between lust and love was brutally abused by this new alliance who delighted in watching humans fall into lustful embraces whilst destroying loving partnerships. Their enjoyment ranged from delicate and nuanced unrequited love to quick and dirty lustful couplings that exploded happy homes.

In London, England, Earth, two retired ethereal beings were entirely out of the loop on the goings-on in Heaven and Hell, and they preferred it that way, frankly. It is debatable whether their knowing would have affected the outcome of the situation that they were to find themselves in, but such supposition is a wasted exercise as they were utterly unaware of the chaos that they had helped set in motion.

On this particular afternoon, Crowley is sitting on the usual bench in St James’s Park and watching the ducks paddle about. Aziraphale should be arriving soon and then they would head onwards for lunch. The black swan glides across Crowley’s field of vision and catches his eye, he follows it until it disappears behind the island. He feels a lot like that swan, if he’s honest. Not for the tired cliché of being the lone dark and dramatic creature seeking company with a white feathered contemporary, but for the way that they both projected a calm and collected image. Just below the surface, both Crowley and the swan were paddling like mad to keep momentum, stay upright, soldier on. Sullenly, Crowley decides that the swan is probably doing a better job of it and he throws a surreptitious handful of peas into the water just to make all the ducks go bottoms up and destroy their composure. As if ducks have ever cared about such things.

A flash of white-blond hair between the greenery makes Crowley’s heart leap in a distinctly undemonic fashion. He fights to bring it back under control before Aziraphale can see him, cursing his inability to keep his emotions in check.

Perhaps it is this pulse of unbridled longing that alerts the nearby incubus. Perhaps it is coincidence. Perhaps Crowley is being targeted by a former colleague with a score to settle. Perhaps the incubus is firing about at random and Crowley is merely collateral damage. Part of life on Earth means understanding that some questions simply don’t have answers within our reach, and this is one of those instances. Regardless of motive or lack thereof, Crowley is hit with a powerful lust curse right at the moment that his guard falters at the sight of Aziraphale rounding the corner, beaming at him.

Lurching forward as if he’s been hit between the shoulder blades, Crowley barely keeps himself from falling off the bench onto his knees. He looks up just in time to see Aziraphale rushing to his side, concern written all across his face. Knowing that he can’t let Aziraphale get too close, Crowley musters all his remaining will and snatches his glasses off his face, baring his teeth in a snarl.

“STOP!” He yells, refusing to acknowledge the relief he feels when Aziraphale skids to a halt less than a metre from him. “Run.”

Aziraphale falters, his hands fluttering anxiously as he stands between wanting to help and knowing he should flee.

The fear in his face feels like a dagger in Crowley’s heart, but he’s still standing too close and Crowley is losing his internal fight.

“RUN!” He roars.

Aziraphale snaps out of his indecision and spins on the ball of one foot. He runs.

Sinking to his hands and knees, Crowley concentrates on the feeling of rough asphalt grating at his palms and takes deep, centring breaths. He can fight this if he believes hard enough, he can overcome it and laugh this all off as a prank with Aziraphale. He just has to want it. The parts of his mind that are under his control are shrinking rapidly, Crowley can feel his restraint slipping away. The grazes on his hands send urgent signals to a brain that is no longer capable of interpreting them.

The tension leaves Crowley’s body like a sigh and he climbs back to his feet, brushing off his clothing casually as if he’d just been laying in the sun. Some humans stare at him as he slides his glasses back over reptilian eyes, he offers them a smile that is all teeth and no humour until they look away in discomfort. Composed once more, the body of Crowley begins a leisurely amble in the direction of Aziraphale’s bookshop whilst, trapped in a tiny corner of his mind, Crowley’s conscience watches and screams.

There have always been two halves of Crowley, two sides to his nature that guide his actions. Usually, he doesn’t struggle with them much; they can both be appeased by suitably demonic activities that cause inconvenience and spur humans to choose the easier, more sinful path. By providing opportunities for humanity to sin, rather than forcing them into no-win situations, Crowley satisfies his evil nature without upsetting his softer need for fairness. A psychologist might consider this a fairly normal interaction between the id, super-ego, and ego but Crowley has never liked Freudian models and isn’t familiar with the concept. Right now, though, Crowley’s id is in charge with one very specific goal in mind.

For Crowley’s conscience, it feels a little like watching someone else play a video game with your customised character. He sees, hears, feels everything but no matter what he tries, the body won’t respond to him, it’s driven by a stronger, deeper, and more primal power. Every feeling that Crowley has ever had for Aziraphale is warped and twisted into a furious hunger. He feels this too and he recognises it, these are his most secret thoughts and desires brought to the surface and given strength.

The walk to Aziraphale’s bookshop doesn’t take long; Crowley’s lanky legs carry him quickly enough without having to hurry. He’s surprised to find the bookshop locked up and empty, Aziraphale had few haunts and in a panic could almost always be counted on to make for the safety of his bolthole, just like the startled rabbit that he is. Crowley sniffs the air, his tongue flicking out to taste the traces of Aziraphale. Sure enough, there’s an angelic tang to the air but it’s cold. Aziraphale didn’t run back here. Crowley’s mouth widens into a predatory grin at the anticipation of a real hunt with a long-awaited prize at the end.

Retracing his steps, Crowley draws repeated breaths over his tongue to seek the trail of his quarry. The heat in his stomach curls deliciously with every lungful, every strengthening zing of angel across his tongue. He’s almost back at the park before the trail splits, leading him away from the bookshop and on a fresher scent. After all these years, Aziraphale can still surprise him; and isn’t that sweet? Crowley is struggling less and less against the urges that drive him forward, tired by the mental exertion and defeated by the knowledge that he won’t win. His last hope is that the curse wears off before he can find Aziraphale, but the thought is half-hearted at best. Before long, there won’t be any rational thought left in Crowley’s head, only need and want and lust.

The scent profile shifts, there are currents of sweat and fear mingling in with the constant taste of Aziraphale. It thrills Crowley, knowing that his prey isn’t playing around, that he has truly scared Aziraphale into running from him. He follows his tongue to a tube station where the trail grows fainter, mixing with dozens of human scents. If it had been rush hour, Crowley might have lost him completely here; what good fortune that even the lunchtime traffic hasn’t started yet. The barriers admit Crowley without complaint and he descends into the station, following his senses all the way.

It’s the work of mere seconds for Crowley to recall the geography of this line, his mind racing through the likely scenarios that Aziraphale would have considered as options for escape. The scent leads him to the westbound platform and everything falls into place. Crowley knows exactly where Aziraphale has gone and he couldn’t have picked a better arena for his destruction if he’d tried. A wicked grin spreads across his face, unnerving and alarming the human passengers nearest to him. He pays them no heed, his desire has only ever had one name.

The train makes an unscheduled stop. It’s stationary for less than a second before it rumbles on its way again and the doors never open. Crowley steps on to the deserted platform and flicks his tongue into the stale air. There’s dirt, decay, mould, rats, and fresh angelic fear. Crowley is pleased, after the initial setback with the bookshop, this had been easier than he had hoped. Standing perfectly still, he can still feel the air swirling around him in the wake of the train. The distant rumbles of trains sound like great beasts awaking from a slumber. Crowley listens for something else, a footstep or a heartbeat. There’s nothing. Not even the sigh of fabric against skin.

Waiting is just part of the hunt, waiting is what separates the novice from the master, and waiting will serve Crowley well in this dark, musty space. He’s as still as a statue, his heart and lungs held in his will, resisting even the temptation to taste the air again. Crowley waits.

Another train approaches, but this one doesn’t slow, and flashes past in a blaze of fluorescent light. Within the cacophony of screeching wheels and thundering carriages, Crowley makes out quietly shuffling footsteps, as if someone is very slowly backing away. The train passes and silence takes the platform once more. This time, Crowley knows where Aziraphale is hiding and he begins to take his aim.

Knowing that Aziraphale will hear him as soon as he moves, Crowley takes a deliberate step forward and allows the sound to echo around the abandoned station. To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t break; there’s no whimper or startled gasp, there’s no sudden flurry of footsteps as he tries to run, not even the snap of a miracle. Impressed, Crowley flickers his tongue to savour the fresh wave of fear coming from the pedestrian tunnel.

As he walks to the tunnel entrance, Crowley begins to see something he recognises on the walls, crude paint over Edwardian tiles picking out rude phrases and obscene images. The familiarity of the setting is almost too perfect. He rounds the corner into the tunnel and saunters onwards towards the derelict elevator hall. His footsteps continue to resonate throughout the place, bouncing off the cold walls. A nest of rats scurry away from his advancing feet, barely reaching safety before he kicks through the detritus that was their home.

It’s pitch black in the elevator hall; the light of passing trains doesn’t penetrate this far. Crowley pulls off his sunglasses and tucks them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He can see just fine with or without them, but this experience is something he doesn’t want any barriers in place for. He can sense Aziraphale long before he can see him; the clever thing had lowered his body temperature to try and avoid detection but he hadn’t done anything to mask the waves of fear that rolled off him like fog. Crowley tastes it, consumes it, lets it fill him like a favoured wine.

Pressed against the far wall, a mere 20 metres away, Aziraphale comes into view. Crowley is by his side in an instant, as if one step had taken him across the width of the hall.

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, are you alright? What’s going on?”

Some distant part of Crowley screams out, shattered by the concern in Aziraphale’s voice, hearing how he asks after Crowley before worrying for himself.

“I’m just fine, angel. What’s a nice creature like you doing in a place like this, hmm?”

Aziraphale’s back is hard against the wall, Crowley whispers in his ear and leans into him. It’s far more familiar of a stance than they have ever taken and Crowley delights in it. The proximity to his prey is heady, toying with it is just part of the fun.

“I didn’t know where else to go. I thought I could at least buy some time to try and work out what was wrong.” Aziraphale is rambling and they both know it.

Crowley presses his hips forward, rubbing an obvious erection against Aziraphale. The tip of his nose strokes gently along the edge of Aziraphale’s jaw and his hands find Aziraphale’s waist.

“I can’t say that this is the venue that I would have chosen for our first time together, but it’s probably more fitting than you realise.” Crowley lets his voice drop to a low whisper and his hands trail up Aziraphale’s sides.

“First time? What are you talking about? Get off me, Crowley!” Aziraphale forces his arms between them and plants his hands on Crowley’s chest.

With casual disinterest, Crowley looks down at Aziraphale’s hands and back up at his face. There’s worry and confusion written all over him but the fear is decreasing. Crowley knows that’s about to change. He presses closer once more, crushing Aziraphale’s hands between them. His nose touches the soft skin of Aziraphale’s neck, just below his ear, as his hips roll into Aziraphale once more. The temptation to sneak a taste is irresistible, though Crowley doesn’t even try, his tongue snakes out and swipes just above Aziraphale’s collar.

“Really now, that is enough!” Aziraphale shoves at Crowley’s chest with both hands.

Unmoving, Crowley takes another, more daring taste of forbidden angel skin. Aziraphale pushes again, attempting to draw from his angelic power to get Crowley away from him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Crowley.” There’s panic in his voice now.

“What if I want to hurt you, though?”

The air crackles around them as Aziraphale focuses his strength and pours it all into shoving Crowley away. Crowley’s fingers grip Aziraphale’s waist a little harder but he doesn’t move. Aziraphale might as well be pushing against a mountain.

“I’m stronger than you, why can’t I move you?” Aziraphale’s plaintive cry would have broken Crowley in any other situation.

“Silly, foolish angel. You never look where you’re going.”

Crowley clicks his fingers and illuminates the grim hall they occupy. His mouth fastens onto Aziraphale’s throat with a sucking kiss that he savours. The horrified gasp tastes especially delicious.

Breaking away, Crowley allows Aziraphale to see his face clearly for the first time. His eyes are fully yellow, sickly with unspeakable passions, and his mouth is hungry. He delights in the frantic chase of expressions across Aziraphale’s face as the reality of their struggle hits home.

“How?” Aziraphale chokes, still straining away from Crowley’s presence.

“Life’s funny, isn’t it? You help some kids break into an abandoned tube station in the 70s and watch them skate around, getting stoned and weird. You think to yourself, wouldn’t it be funny to have them desecrate this place and make a satanic altar? Kids are so suggestible. They never did anything with it, but the sigils and all that were legitimate. It’s so  _ funny _ that you would come here of all places, maybe the only place in London where your powers are weakened.” Crowley smiles as he speaks, as if he’s reminiscing fondly.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale’s voice breaks on the question.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you  _ want _ this.” Crowley rolls his hips for emphasis.

Aziraphale whines, squirming away as much as he can.

“Not- Not like this, Crowley.”

Crowley’s hesitation lasts less than half a second, but it’s there. A glimmer of Crowley’s true self bursts through the curse just enough to recast his features into a grimace of despair and then it’s gone.

“You do,” Crowley drawls, leaning back in to kiss another livid bruise onto Aziraphale’s neck.

Satisfied with the blossoming mark he’s created, Crowley forces Aziraphale round to face the wall, still using his whole body to pin him in place. Crowley’s teeth nip at Aziraphale’s earlobe until he yelps.

“You want this as much as I do, you just never admitted it to yourself.” Crowley hisses between his teeth, “I’ve been right here this whole time, right in front of you. But you were too good to sully yourself with the likes of me. Is that it, angel?”

“Crowley, stop! This isn’t you. Stop and we can talk about this!” Aziraphale pleads.

“I think we’ve talked quite enough.”

Crowley is hard and throbbing in his jeans, the thrill of the chase had kept his mind from it, but now he is painfully aware of just how physical this need is.

“Please,” Aziraphale cries, still squirming and wriggling to try and get free.

“Oh, I like it when you beg me.”

Keeping his chest against Aziraphale’s back, Crowley grabs hold of his hips and slides his hands around to the front. He fumbles with the belt buckle and pulls it open, growling into Aziraphale’s neck as he does so. The buttons go next, undoing just enough so that Crowley can force the trousers down Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you’ve never thought about this late at night when you’re all alone.” Crowley slips his fingertips under the waistband of Aziraphale’s underwear as he whispers, sounding dangerously calm.

Aziraphale chokes under him, a small and pitiful sound. Crowley yanks down Aziraphale’s boxers when he doesn’t get an answer.

“Go on, Aziraphale. Tell me the truth. Tell me why I was never good enough for you! TELL ME!”

Crowley tears open Aziraphale’s collar and bites him on the shoulder, sinking his teeth in deep enough to feel the muscle tense against him.

“I can’t! Crowley,  _ please _ , don’t do this.”

Aziraphale’s pleas only serve to make Crowley grind against him harder.

“You can and you will. You can feel the effect you have on me, how much I want you. Don’t I deserve to know why I’ve wasted so long on you?” Crowley snarls, unbuttoning his own jeans roughly.

Aziraphale sobs, his struggling has largely stilled, although he tenses each time that Crowley’s mouth claims his skin.

“I can’t because it isn’t true! I’ve wanted you since before I knew what it was to want. I’ve wanted you in a hundred thousand secret ways. But I never wanted  _ this _ !” His voice cracks over the confession.

“LIAR!” Crowley all but roars.

Tears prick at his eyes, an automatic response from a version of Crowley who isn’t present. Aziraphale flinches away, only serving to further anger the raging beast that Crowley has become. A flick of his wrist summons a coating of lubricant onto the fingers of Crowley’s right hand, he wraps his left arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders and continues using the length of his body to hold his captive in place. Jamming his knee between Aziraphale’s thighs to part them, Crowley strokes one careful fingertip against Aziraphale’s hole.

“Last chance, angel,” Aziraphale whimpers at the endearment, “Last chance to tell me the truth.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer but Crowley doesn’t wait to hear him. He plunges one long finger into Aziraphale and drinks in the shuddering cry that it wrenches from him.

“On second thought; I don’t care.”

Crowley begins to open Aziraphale up in earnest, stretching him harder and further than a caring lover might, keeping his mouth busy along Aziraphale’s shoulder with bites and bruising kisses. His hips rock relentlessly into the meat of Aziraphale’s arse, rubbing his hard cock against angelic flesh. Every pained whimper and cry from Aziraphale threatens to send Crowley over the edge, the pressure inside him is so strong.

“Have you ever been fucked before, Aziraphale? Have you let humans befoul your corporation with their mayfly selves?” Crowley clamps his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth, silencing any answer that might have come.

Crowley doesn’t care about the answer, not really. It doesn’t matter to Crowley if Aziraphale’s had a million cocks in him or if he’s a blushing virgin, this is barely even about Aziraphale. Lining himself up with Aziraphale’s slick and prepared hole, Crowley turns Aziraphale’s head to the other side to continue his assault on unmarked, pale skin and sinks his cock into the warm depths of Aziraphale. A groan vibrates his lips against Aziraphale’s neck, pleasure gripping him from all sides. His hand is wet and he can’t work out why for a second; Aziraphale’s tears are pooling along Crowley’s fingers. With faint disgust, Crowley pulls his hand away and wipes it on Aziraphale’s sleeve.

The subtle change in position sets Crowley’s cock alight with sensation, he bottoms out inside Aziraphale and absorbs the satisfaction.

“You were made for fucking like this, angel. Satan, you feel incredible. I’m going to fill you up again and again and again. You won’t be able to walk for a month.” Crowley growls into Aziraphale’s ear as he begins to move.

It’s awkward, but Crowley works out a position where he’s pushing Aziraphale into the wall with his forearm hard across Aziraphale’s shoulder blades while his other hand reaches round to pump Aziraphale’s cock in time with his own thrusts.

The tortured cry that Aziraphale fails to keep muffled sounds like a prayer to Crowley. He throws his head back and punctuates his thrusts with lusty grunts. Crowley is drinking up the fear and pain and finding it more intoxicating than communion wine; this forbidden thing that had been flaunted before him for so long is now trembling beneath him, totally powerless. That thought brings a sudden urgency to his motions; Crowley’s climax is building and he knows exactly how to make it memorable.

Squeezing Aziraphale’s cock that bit tighter, Crowley brings his lips to Aziraphale’s ear and nips at him.

“ _ Uh _ , ah. You know, angel -  _ umf - _ after all this time, -  _ ugk  _ \- I wish I could say -  _ ah fuck - _ that the wait was worth it. Hah.”

Aziraphale comes into Crowley’s hand as Crowley laughs at him. The sound of angelic sobbing is music to Crowley’s ears as he thrusts twice more and falls over his own edge.

There’s a second of pure bliss, of blinding whiteness and unending pleasure.

Crowley is still coming inside Aziraphale when the curse leaves him, exposing him all at once to the grim reality of his position. Repulsed by himself, Crowley throws himself backwards, away from Aziraphale, and onto the floor. The last few spurts of semen fall into the tangle of clothing bunched around his knees as the smell of rat urine and dead things fill the air.

Crowley hasn’t eaten in days, but he retches all the same, vomiting bile and hatred into his putrid surroundings. His eyes are running and his throat stings but he can’t think about himself, not now.

“Aziraphale...” Crowley forces himself to his feet, tugs his clothing back into place, and approaches Aziraphale cautiously, one hand extended as if he’s a wild animal.

“Aziraphale, I’m so sorry.”

These words aren’t enough, he knows that. There aren’t words that can ever repair what he’s broken. There’s a grave in his chest and his heart lays motionless in it.

Aziraphale doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Aziraphale just weeps these sad, little sobs. Crowley goes numb, his vision narrows, and suddenly everything feels out of reach. 

With a gesture Aziraphale is cleaned and dressed, the damage to his clothing disappears, and all physical evidence of the past hour is wiped away. In the back of his mind, Crowley distantly wishes that he could remove the psychological evidence as easily. 

One more gesture and they are both standing in Aziraphale’s bookshop. Crowley lingers in the doorway, barely over the threshold, and Aziraphale still has his back to him. In the grips of utter hopelessness, Crowley scrubs his hands over his face and sighs.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I just- I mean- never mind. I’ll go.”

He fishes his sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on as he’s pulling open the door. The world outside the bookshop seems so ordinary, unchanged as if Crowley’s entire existence hadn’t just been shattered beyond repair.

_ You selfish fuck. Making this about yourself already, acting like you’re some kind of victim here. _

Crowley’s thoughts are bitter and uncharitable, or perhaps they are exactly as charitable as he deserves. He hunches his shoulders to his ears and stares at the ground as he plods home, feeling too sullen to put any energy into walking.

By the time he reaches his front door, Crowley’s heartbreak has given over to rage and self-loathing amplified to levels that shouldn’t fit inside his too-skinny self. Slamming the door behind him, Crowley throws his glasses in the direction of the hallway table, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and screams until his throat is raw. It’s not enough, of course it isn’t, it hurts but it doesn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he needs. He paces the flat, running his hands through his hair hard enough to pull and looking for something to fixate on before he goes all the way insane.

The plants.

The miniature oasis trembles at his approach, too attuned to his moods for their own good. Crowley would pity them if that wasn’t entirely missing the point. He snatches up the mister and tastes the air for humidity, it’s perfect, of course, but there’s no harm in checking. The aspidistra is wilting and the coin plant has dropped two circular leaves onto the table, Crowley almost feels like crying with relief. He looms over the coin plant and leers at it, picking up one of the dropped leaves between two fingers.

“What am I supposed to make of this, hm?” He holds the leaf out accusingly, ignoring how his fingers shake.

The plants, of course, don’t answer. They never do. Sometimes Crowley envies them their silence, but today is not one of them. The coin plant is still small, new and young enough to have gotten away with a warning. He picks it up by the rim of the pot to give it a closer inspection. Something about the plant looks faintly apologetic, the arrangement of the leaves, perhaps, and the last thread of self-control inside Crowley snaps.

He launches the coin plant against the wall, watching as it leaves a dirty smear on its slide to the floor, but he doesn’t feel any better. He crosses the room and kicks the plastic pot away. The plant looks pathetic and helpless on the concrete floor; it needs Crowley to take mercy on it, to keep it alive and thriving. He crushes it under his heel, grinding the roots and leaves and dirt into paste.

It’s a massacre after that; Crowley tears into his plants one by one and destroys them with his bare hands where he can. He rips leaves from stems, splits root systems in two with his thumbs, and snaps the trunks of his indoor trees. Nothing is spared from his rampage. All the while, he screams incoherently at them in an attempt to express his fury, his disappointment, his utter contempt. It goes on until the room is in ruins and he’s left standing in the centre of it, filthy and panting and crying.

He falls to his knees amongst the dirt and the leaves, letting tears run down his face with heaving, ugly sobs. Shards of terracotta dig into his legs, not sharp enough to cut, but painful all the same. Crowley rests on his hands and knees, trying to remember how to breathe, but it never comes. All he can do is cry and choke on his guilt. Eventually, he curls in on himself and lies on his side to hug his knees to his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m disgusting and awful and I’m sorry.” Crowley whispers his mantra into the stillness for hours, surrounded by destruction that could never be undone with an apology.

When he wakes, Crowley doesn’t get that Hollywood moment of happy ignorance where he forgets why he’s lying on the floor surrounded by dead plants and broken pottery. Before his eyes are even open, Crowley is reliving the horrors of his depraved actions. He cycles through shame, self-loathing, disgust, and rage a few times before recognising the one constant; his concern for Aziraphale.

_ Typical of you to make this all about yourself. Stupid, stupid Crowley. Barely even sparing a thought for Aziraphale. _

Rolling on to his back, Crowley drops one arm over his eyes and groans. Dirt falls from his sleeve into his mouth and eyes, which is unpleasant, but still nothing like the punishment he deserves. 

The beginning of a penance begins to form in his mind, something that would at least allow him to do right by Aziraphale. He pushes himself up and brushes the worst of the soil from his clothing, but he can’t bring himself to look at the bare spaces where his plants had so recently stood. As he leaves the room, he closes the swinging door to block out the mess he’d made.

There’s a pad of good quality paper in one of the drawers of his desk, another drawer has envelopes and sealing wax, and a third holds pens and ink; as much as Crowley enjoys the modern world, some things are timelessly elegant. He believes that handwritten letters are one such example, worth the effort when it matters. 

It has never mattered more than this moment which is why Crowley manifests his wings and pulls out one of his secondary feathers with a sharp yank. With a small knife and practised motions, he shapes it into a serviceable pen. Briefly, Crowley considers opening a vein and using his own worthless blood as the ink. But no, that won’t help Aziraphale, and so he sets the idea aside. There’s an ink in his selection so dark that it looks like black holes burned into the paper that will do instead. Crowley sets up, takes a deep breath, and begins to write.

_ Aziraphale, _

_ Firstly, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry for what I did to you. I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and I’m never going to stop being sorry for that. _

_ I don’t want you to worry, I’ll stay away from you until the end of time. You won’t ever have to see me again. I hope that after this letter you never even have to think of my name again. _

_ There’s no way for me to make this up to you, I know that, but I will take any punishment that you see fit. I’ll burn my wings off, I’ll go back to Hell, I’ll spend eternity floating in space. Say the word and I’ll submerge myself in holy water. Anything you think I deserve. _

_ I’m sorry. You deserved a far better friend than I have been. _

_ Yours always, _

_ Crowley _

It wasn’t enough, still.  _ Fuck _ , it wasn’t ever going to be enough. He could cut out his idiotic heart and wrap it in butchers’ paper, tie it up with a ribbon, and deliver the whole bloody mess to Aziraphale and it wouldn’t be enough. This was the best he could do and it wouldn’t come close to healing the wounds he had inflicted.

Sniffling to himself, Crowley folds the paper and slots it into an envelope. He melts wax and drips a puddle across the join. Before the wax can cool, he plucks a downy feather and presses it down with his seal. On the front, he writes simply “A”.

Crowley folds his wings away and leaves the flat, his sunglasses firmly in place and the letter held between forefinger and thumb as if he’s afraid of getting too much of himself on the paper. The Bentley is too loud, too conspicuous, so Crowley walks to the bookshop and tries to be invisible. It’s still early when Crowley reaches the crossroads; the doors are closed and the lights are off which means that Aziraphale is probably buried in a book somewhere in the back room. This is as good a chance as he’s likely to get. Crowley darts across the road, posts the letter through the door, and practically sprints back home.

Now Crowley is faced with the decision of what to do while he awaits his sentence. It’s been so long since he had to pass the time without Aziraphale as a distraction that he can’t think for a moment. Going to bed means passing through the plant room and he’s not ready to face that just yet. He starts to pace the room, full of nervous energy and chafing against his self-imposed boundaries. The TV flicks on at a gesture but the sound annoys him so he shuts it off again. In the silence, his thoughts are too loud. Crowley wants a drink, but they are all in the kitchen.

With a realisation that hurts, Crowley groans and snaps his fingers. Several bottles of whiskey appear on his desk, all the pillows and blankets he owns pile up in one corner of the room, and Crowley’s dirt-streaked clothes are swapped for comfortable pyjamas. With a bottle in one hand, Crowley burrows into his misery nest and prepares to drink himself unconscious.

The banging at the door is loud enough to wake the dead. Crowley is only part-way there, another bottle or two might have done the trick, so the noise wakes him too. It’s light out and he’s still drunk, but that’s all he knows. Whoever is banging, he doesn’t want to see them. His eyes hurt in the light so he rolls over and closes them again, prepared to ignore any interruption that might come his way.

“CROWLEY! ARE YOU IN THERE?”

Well,  _ shit _ , it’s Aziraphale. Crowley finds himself surprised and unprepared. He’s far too drunk to face him right now, too drunk even to work out how to sober himself up. The pounding on the door gets louder, something he’s pretty sure should have been impossible. He panics and ducks his head into the pile of blankets. Seconds later there’s an almighty crash and Crowley’s front door goes through a rather drastic change of state, from solid to gas in record time. Aziraphale’s footsteps draw closer.

_ I’m not here. I’m invisible. I’m not here. _

“Crowley! Where are you?” Aziraphale calls for him, sounding worried. 

“Please be here, please be OK, Crowley,” he says in a smaller voice.

Something catches in Crowley’s throat, unexpected and confusing. He deserves anger, rage, retribution, pain; not this worried and soft voice that Aziraphale uses against him instead. Footsteps pass through the room and Crowley hears the gasp that follows Aziraphale pushing open the door to the plant room.

“Oh Crowley, what happened here?”

He can’t take it anymore, he can’t stand that sadness and sympathy being directed at him.

“Go ‘way,” Crowley says from within his blankets.

“There you are!” Aziraphale sounds relieved which is no way to sound upon finding your rapist curled up and feeling sorry for himself.

Crowley shuffles around to face away from Aziraphale, not wanting to look at him.

“Whatever you’ve decided, just write it down and I’ll do it. You don’t have to be here.”

Aziraphale’s feet do a nervous little dance, tapping the soles of his shoes against the floor. He doesn’t leave.

“I haven’t come here to dole out your punishment, Crowley,” Aziraphale is speaking softly and Crowley doesn’t know what to do with this revelation.

“’m very drunk.” Crowley lifts his head and lets himself look at Aziraphale at last.

Predictably, Aziraphale looks like shit. His face is ashen and drawn, there’s a downward cast to his mouth and a pinched look about his eyes that speaks volumes about his pain and misery. Crowley looks away, knowing he’s the reason for every ounce of it.

“I know, dear.”

Crowley cringes. Aziraphale makes a helpless noise in his throat, and it tears Crowley apart all over again. He hears a muffled noise and finds himself distressingly sober.

“Better?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley nods but can’t bring himself to look up. A god awful screeching, scraping sound makes that decision for him as his head flies up to see Aziraphale dragging the throne across the floor, bringing it closer to where Crowley is huddled. He stops closer than Crowley expected, but further away than he’d hoped, and sits down, leaning forward to Crowley with that damned haunted look on his face.

“Will you talk to me?”

Crowley uncurls a little, he can’t keep eye contact for more than a few seconds, but he had said that he’d do anything, hadn’t he?

“Whatever you want.”

“Crowley, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let you think for a second that you had to go through this alone.”

Crowley’s brain short-circuits so thoroughly that smoke might be coming out of his ears.

“Wha- I don- Bu-,” he swallowed and tried again, “Aziraphale, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Aziraphale’s face softens into something so inconceivably sad that Crowley starts to tear up just from looking at him.

“Tell me honestly, if you had been at all able to resist what happened to you yesterday, would you have?”

“Of course, of course I would have. I tried so hard to fight it, to give you enough time to get away once I realised that I would lose.” Crowley begins to openly weep now, rubbing his face against the nearest blanket.

“You didn’t consent. You didn’t have the chance to.”

Crowley scoffs through tears until the hurt look on Aziraphale’s face confuses him.

“I  _ did _ it, though. I forced you and I wanted it. Fuck, Aziraphale, I wanted it so much.” Crowley shakes his head, denying Aziraphale’s reasoning.

“That wasn’t you.”

“It was PART of me! Don’t you see that? The part that wanted it, that did that to you, it was still me.” Crowley is desperate, pleading with Aziraphale to understand. “I hurt you, scared you, I hunted you through the London fucking Underground. If it wasn’t me, it wouldn’t have been you.”

There’s silence between them as Aziraphale digests this, Crowley shrinks back into himself and wishes that this whole ordeal could just be over.

“What if it had been the other way around?” Aziraphale ventures, carefully, “What if I had been the one hit by the curse? I’d have done the same to you. Would you wish me dead for it?”

“No,” Crowley admits, “You’d never have found me, though.”

Aziraphale fixes him with a no-nonsense stare.

“Really? You’d have gone to the Trocadero and hidden in the old arcade. I may not have your senses, but I do know  _ you. _ ”

Crowley looks away again, reddening. He could try to deny it but that had been the first place he’d thought of. How Aziraphale knew that was beyond him, but he supposes that it wasn’t the point.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Why you’re being so kind to me? I don’t deserve it.” Crowley mumbles into the blankets.

Aziraphale sighs and looks to the ceiling as if praying for divine intervention. They both know it isn’t coming any time soon.

“You stuffed a letter through my door telling me that you were prepared to destroy yourself if I wished it. I was terrified that I’d lose you forever. It rather focused my mind on what is important.”

“Listen to yourself, Aziraphale,” Crowley sits up a bit straighter, the blankets falling away from his shoulders, “I  _ raped _ you. You shouldn’t want me around, you shouldn’t be here at all. You deserve better.”

Aziraphale jumps from the throne and paces away from Crowley.

“Deserve? What does  _ deserving _ have to do with anything, Crowley? Neither of us deserved what happened but I refuse to see myself as your victim. YOU don’t get to decide that for ME! You’re so bloody fixed on this idea that you’re this terrible, unforgivable thing, and I won’t have it!” Aziraphale’s voice grows with every new point he makes, until he’s nearly bellowing at Crowley.

“I am, though,” Crowley says in a small voice.

“Not to me! I forgive you, Crowley. If that’s what you need to hear, then have it! I forgive you! You haven’t done anything that requires forgiveness, but you can have it all anyway. God knows someone needs to be kind to you because you are a fucking nightmare to yourself!” He’s towering over Crowley and looking so angry.

“We can’t just pretend that this never happened, though!” Crowley whines, petulant in the face of Aziraphale’s indignation.

Exhausted, Aziraphale collapses back into the throne and rubs one hand over his face.

“No, you’re right. We can’t. We both need to heal and process and so on.” Aziraphale waves a hand to indicate nebulous recovery stages. “I’d just rather go through that  _ with _ you than without you. Do you see?”

Crowley nods, his mouth a grim line. He thinks he understands, that it makes sense. They really only have each other; Aziraphale clearly thinks that he can ignore what Crowley did to him because the idea of being alone seems worse than having to face Crowley. It’s only a matter of time before he comes to his senses and the shock wears off and then Crowley will be left on his own again. Maybe that’s the punishment he deserves after all: an indeterminate amount of time trying to pretend that everything is fine and never knowing when Aziraphale will finally see sense.

Fingers snapping in front of his face drag Crowley out of his thoughts.

“I know that look, where were you going?” Aziraphale looks sad again, maybe Crowley won’t be kept hanging on for too long.

“Nowhere, just thinking.” Crowley shrugs.

“You’re a nightmare,” Aziraphale says again, sighing, “look, this is probably a bad idea-”

Crowley snorts a bitter laugh at that. Aziraphale gives him a sharp look and continues.

“I wish I’d done this months ago, years even. I was a coward then and little has changed, if I’m honest, but you need to hear this and know it as truth.”

Crowley’s curiosity is piqued; he shuffles a little closer and watches Aziraphale draw a steadying breath.

“I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale does something odd with his voice, imbuing it with a power that touches Crowley deep inside his chest. “I am _ in love _ with you. As impossible as you are, I love you completely.” 

Whatever Crowley is expecting, this isn’t it. 

His hand raises as if it belongs to someone else, because he sure as hell didn’t tell it to reach for Aziraphale’s cheek. He moves slowly, but they both notice the involuntary flinch as Aziraphale jerks away from Crowley’s touch. Broken, Crowley starts to drop his hand only for Aziraphale to catch it and press his cheek into Crowley’s palm.

“I’m sorry, it’s going to be a struggle for a while,” Aziraphale says, so sorrowful that Crowley can’t stand it.

“Please stop apologising, angel.” The endearment wins a smile from Aziraphale, so Crowley decides that it was worth the gamble. “We’ll go as slowly as we need to. Glaciers will look at us and tell us to get a move on if that’s what you need.”

Aziraphale’s smile is soft and so welcome, Crowley could crawl inside it and live there forever, if Aziraphale would let him.

“I’m going to clean up in there,” Aziraphale points to the plant room, “and then we can go and pick out some new plants, if you like. Start fresh and see if you can try being gentle with them this time?”

Crowley screws up his nose at that suggestion.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, my love,” Aziraphale pauses and smiles with an unbearable fondness at how easily the new endearment falls from his lips, “if you can be gentle with them then maybe you can start to be gentle with yourself. I’d love for you to start being kind to yourself after all this time.”

Crowley makes a noise that could mean any number of things but Aziraphale seems to understand regardless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to write more for this. I needed to show more of their recovery.

“I’m so close, angel.” Crowley’s little frown of concentration deepens as he speaks.

Aziraphale is flooded with fondness for him, appreciating the work that Crowley is putting into making Aziraphale happy.

“I know, dear, but perhaps you might let me take over?” He suggests, gently.

Crowley growls in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale doesn’t flinch away from it. The task at hand forgotten, Crowley’s wide and panicked eyes meet Aziraphale’s, searching his face for signs of fear or upset.

“I’m so sorry, are you OK?”

Aziraphale nods and smiles, taking Crowley’s hands and pressing kisses to the tops of his knuckles.

“It’s fine, I’m alright. Really.”

Some of the tension leaves Crowley’s shoulders but not all of it. Aziraphale holds out his hand, palm up, expectantly. With a short huffed laugh, Crowley picks the last two beanbags up from the counter and deposits them in his waiting hand.

“I’ll warn you, this is pretty tricky. No cheating, you said.”

The stallholder looks on as if he’ll be able to catch any interference that Aziraphale might be capable of. With a cheery smile and an aura of perfect innocence, Aziraphale takes his aim and throws the first little sack towards the targets. Beside him, Crowley sucks air over his teeth in a hiss of sympathy.

“Oooh, so close, angel. Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

“Hush, you. That was my first throw, you’ve had nearly twenty!”

Aziraphale is tickled by the faint blush and petulant turn of mouth that Crowley wears for a second before he takes an elaborate and mocking bow.

“By all means, go ahead and show me how it’s done.”

Squaring his shoulders once more, Aziraphale focuses on the top prize target and visualises the bean bag hitting its mark and knocking down the cans. He takes one deep breath and puts a measured amount of strength into his throw; nothing angelic, just a good, strong throw. It hits the can dead centre and knocks it out of the tower, the whole structure collapses around the space it leaves. Aziraphale grins proudly, looking to Crowley for approval and validation and finds him looking over the top of his sunglasses at the mess of cans rolling off the table and on the floor.

“Wow, angel. Way to show me up, huh?”

For a second, Aziraphale is conflicted; did Crowley really want him to pretend to be bad at something just to make Crowley feel better about himself? A cheeky smirk quickly dispels Aziraphale’s concerns and the pair dissolve into giggles.

The stallholder shuffles over and looks at the cans on the ground as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. However, by the time he’s stacked the cans on the podium again, he’s wearing a congratulatory smile and gesturing expansively to the array of prizes.

“What’ll it be? Take your pick!”

Aziraphale has known which prize he wants since the first moment he saw the stall.

“The big Winnie the Pooh, please!”

He watches as the man frees the soft toy from the display and brings it over. Aziraphale’s arms close around it and, to his delight, he finds that his fingertips barely brush each other around the giant, yellow bear.

“Thank you!” Aziraphale gushes, hugging his prize to his chest.

He can’t see ahead, trusting Crowley to guide him around the crowds and stalls of the funfair as they walk away from the game stall that has taken so much of Crowley’s money and pride.

“Happy now?” Crowley asks, his arm carefully draped around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Deliriously so, my love.”

Crowley hums wordlessly in response, just a pleased little noise that’s nearly drowned out by the music and the shrieking of children on rides. It warms Aziraphale to his core, sharing this simple pleasure with Crowley. He feels so safe and loved with Crowley here.

“Wanna go on the waltzer, angel?” Crowley asks, his tone betraying his own eagerness.

“Yes, why not? That sounds like fun,” Aziraphale says as he shifts Pooh to one hip like an oversized toddler and gives Crowley an adoring smile.

Once they are settled in their car, Pooh seated in with them, Aziraphale reaches for Crowley’s hand and holds it tightly.

“Scared, angel?” Crowley teases as he snuggles into Aziraphale’s side.

It hits Aziraphale with the force of a freight train. He isn’t scared, not even a little bit. For the first time since Crowley stared up at him and commanded him to run, Aziraphale is completely relaxed and at ease.

“Not at all, dear,” Aziraphale says before placing a kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

It has been three years, two months, and nine days since the incubus had cursed Crowley. It has been three years, two months, and eight days since Aziraphale had first said “I love you” to Crowley and Crowley had said it back. 

Healing is a difficult and frustrating process. Aziraphale knows enough to recognise that they will always be healing and growing from the trauma that they shared but he also recognises a milestone when he feels it. Perhaps tomorrow, a grain of the fear will be back, but tonight, in this moment with Crowley holding his hand and grinning like an excited child, Aziraphale feels safe, loved, and calm.

The ride begins to move, the first few jerky motions of the machinery coming to life beneath them, and Crowley grips Aziraphale’s hand a little tighter. His heart feels too big for his chest, like all the love he feels for Crowley is going to burst out of him in a great mess.

Just before the ride picks up speed, Aziraphale leans in close to Crowley to whisper into his ear.

“If you are amenable to it, I would very much like to make love with you tonight.”

He sees Crowley sit upright, startled to attention, and then the ride truly kicks in. They spin so fast that thoughts are swept away as quickly as they form, caught up in the whirling, screaming, flashing cacophony of the waltzer. Throughout, their hands stay tightly linked and Crowley stares at Aziraphale with amazement and awe written all over his face. Even as the laughter and joyful abandon of riding a fairground attraction takes him over, Aziraphale can still see how Crowley looks somewhat stunned.

When the ride stops, they stumble out of their car together and almost trip over each other trying to retrieve Winnie the Pooh. Aziraphale laughs and struggles to keep his balance, dizzy from the ride, as he watches Crowley heft Pooh onto his back and uses a miracle to keep him in place. Crowley takes his hand and leads him away from the rides, heading for somewhere a little more quiet.

They stop between a candy floss stand and a fortune teller. Aziraphale can’t help kissing the corner of Crowley’s mouth where worry has just started to settle.

“You know that you don’t have to do this, right?” Crowley holds Aziraphale at arm's length and looks at him so intently that Aziraphale can imagine it burning him.

“I know. Love, I know and I still mean it. I’m happy and safe and I love you so much. I’d like to try it, if you would.”

Crowley huffs a laugh that lands somewhere between bitter and unbearably fond in a way that only Crowley is capable of.

“If I’m  _ amenable _ , you mean?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and drawing him in for a hug.

“Of course. If it’s not something you want, actively  _ want _ to try just yet, then I don’t want it either,” says Aziraphale with certainty.

“Can I think about it?” asks Crowley after a moment of contemplation.

“Of course,” Aziraphale pauses to kiss Crowley once more. “Think about it for as long as you need.”

With their fingers laced together, they walk another loop of the fairground before deciding that they’ve ridden all the rides and played all the games they wanted to. The light feeling that fills Aziraphale stays with him all the way back to the Bentley. Pooh sits in the back seat and Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hand as much as possible while driving, and it feels like a perfect end to a perfect day.

“I’ve thought about it,” Crowley says as he pulls up outside their home and removes his sunglasses. “I want to, you know. With you. At least some of it.”

Aziraphale smiles and squeezes Crowley’s hand, radiating reassurance.

“We can talk about it inside,” Aziraphale says as he reaches for the car door.

“No,” Crowley shakes his head. “Once we go inside I’ll lose my nerve and I barely have it now. I can talk about this in the car. Is that OK?” Crowley gives Aziraphale such a naked look of vulnerability and pleading that he doesn’t know how to say no to him.

“Of course, whatever makes you comfortable.”

Aziraphale notices the way that Crowley blinks and swallows as if he’s physically dismissing some quip about his comfort not being important. They’ve been working on this a lot, on having Crowley be kinder to himself in his own thoughts and words. It’s been doing wonders for his confidence, as evidenced by the fact that he has just asked for two concessions to help him feel at ease in under an hour.

“I’m afraid that I’ll commit to more than I can deliver,” Crowley says, still looking at Aziraphale.

With the distinct impression that Crowley was begging him to understand something in his words, Aziraphale turns the sentence over in his head until something clicks into place.

“Am I correct in thinking that your concern is that we’ll agree to do this and then, midway, you’ll change your mind, become uncomfortable, or I’ll ask for something you don’t want to do? And that you’ll disappoint me?” Aziraphale keeps his voice calm and level, hiding the sorrow he feels for Crowley in this moment.

“Well, yeah. That’s pretty much it.” Crowley looks away, his free hand grips the top of the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

“Would it help you to know that I have the same worry? I worry that this good feeling will evaporate and I’ll have led you on for nothing.” Aziraphale feels his bottom lip tremble at this confession.

“Angel, you could never- I wouldn’t-” Crowley fumbles for words, growing frustrated with himself.

Aziraphale reaches out for the hand that grips the steering wheel and brings it over to where their other hands are clasped, turning them to face each other. Crowley’s mouth is still working, trying to form the words that will solve all their worries.

“Crowley, you won’t disappoint me, you can’t. I love you, I trust you.” Aziraphale sees him wince at that, just the slightest flicker of discomfort at being deemed trustworthy. “If you don’t want something, then I don’t want it. You must believe me.”

Crowley leans forward and kisses him, a hard press of lips that taste of salty tears.

“Just promise me that you’ll tell me as soon as you want to stop,” Crowley pleads.

“I promise. Of course, I promise. Will you promise me the same?”

Crowley nods and Aziraphale kisses his knuckles.

When Aziraphale had first suggested this, he’d been picturing a heated and frantic rush home, pawing at each other across the driveway, and shedding their clothes as soon as the front door closed behind them. Upon reflection, Aziraphale is grateful for the cautious and careful way that they love each other.

Crowley opens the car door for Aziraphale, helping him fetch Winnie the Pooh from his seat in the back. Aziraphale holds Pooh on his hip and Crowley lays an arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders, burying kisses in his hair for the short distance between the car and their front door.

Inside, the house is warm and welcoming. It’s far more reminiscent of Aziraphale’s old bookshop than Crowley’s flat, with soft furnishings and towering bookshelves dominating most of the rooms. Once Crowley had been able to express how clutter made him think of Hell, Aziraphale had immediately agreed to leaving open spaces and clear surfaces. He’d surprised them both by managing to maintain it as well. Having a space that was a home for them both had done untold wonders for their relationship, their stress levels, and their ability to talk to each other. They have enough space to be alone when needed while still plenty of opportunity to cuddle up together and enjoy shared peace.

It’s this feeling that Aziraphale wants to draw Crowley into once they’re inside. He toes off his shoes and sets Pooh on the floor so he can take off the coat which constitutes the first of his many layers of clothing. Crowley hangs it up for him, having also kicked off his boots and set his keys and glasses on the little table.

“Where are you going to keep that thing, angel?” Crowley asks, nodding towards the large stuffed bear that Aziraphale is hefting back into the air.

“I hadn’t decided yet, perhaps we should see where he looks happiest?” Aziraphale carries Pooh into the living room and makes a show of sitting the bear on the sofa beside him. “Looks like part of the family already, doesn’t he?”

Crowley grumbles and scoops Pooh up, depositing him in an armchair instead.

“If he’s going to stay, he’ll need to learn not to sit in my seat.” Crowley folds himself into the spot from which he’s just evicted the bear, tucking his feet under himself and leaning into Aziraphale.

“Of course, dear.”

Aziraphale draws Crowley into his chest, seeking out his lips for a kiss. To his delight, Crowley returns his kiss with passion and warmth of his own, sucking Aziraphale’s bottom lip between his teeth and holding it gently. It’s easy, then, to press his tongue between Crowley’s lips and taste the spicy sweetness of his mouth.

This is familiar territory, this kissing and gentle touching. They’ve made this safe and comfortable over many months of steady progress and open communication. Crowley rarely cries now, overwhelmed with the love that still feels too good for him. It’s Aziraphale that climbs into Crowley’s lap, straddling his hips and winding his arms around Crowley’s neck; they know now that Aziraphale panics when he’s penned in by Crowley; a discovery that had been both surprising and obvious upon reflection.

Slowly, Crowley slides his hands around Aziraphale’s waist, drawing his hips closer as they continue to lose themselves in the sensations of their kiss. Mentally, Aziraphale congratulates himself for not panicking, not worrying about where Crowley’s hands might go next. The memory of a dark, disgusting ticket hall is quickly banished when it appears, this situation is so different that there’s no comparison to be made. Aziraphale’s desire is only increasing, the feeling of safety and love hasn’t faltered once, he knows that this is what he wants. Drawing back, Aziraphale takes stock of Crowley’s face, the pink flush of his cheeks, the lips parted with darting pink tongue, his golden gaze flitting between Aziraphale’s mouth and eyes. He’s beautiful and unguarded, purely himself. It’s a gift.

“I love you, Crowley. You make me feel safe and protected,” Aziraphale murmurs between pressing kisses along Crowley’s jaw.

He feels the rumble of Crowley’s groan against his chest and smiles to himself. Two more kisses and his lips find Crowley’s earlobe, just begging for a gentle nibble.

“Angel,” Crowley sighs into Aziraphale’s neck. “Let’s take this to bed? I don’t want this to happen here.”

“Of course, love.” Aziraphale pulls back and slips out of Crowley’s lap, taking hold of his hands as to not lose contact completely. “Come with me.”

Aziraphale leads Crowley to their bedroom, locking their fingers together and stroking the back of his hand as if he can convince Crowley of how calm and happy he is to be making this short journey. The bedroom is another area that has taken gargantuan amounts of work, more than Aziraphale had anticipated.

Once Crowley felt able to sleep again that first time, Aziraphale had settled beside him on the bed to read for the night. It was supposed to be restful, just time spent near each other. Crowley’s hellish nightmares were a surprise, as were the frightful sounds he made during them. Aziraphale had been frozen in fear, thrown back into the last time he’d heard Crowley sound so threatening, whilst still torn by wanting to comfort him. Crowley had woken to find Aziraphale sobbing and apologising. It had been two months before Crowley tried sleeping again.

Now they share the bedroom without issue; Aziraphale sleeps rarely but enjoys holding Crowley close to him. For his part, Crowley isn’t bothered by nightmares anywhere near as often if Aziraphale is touching him. The other possible uses for the bed have, so far, been studiously ignored.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley across the threshold, walking backwards and making Crowley follow him. They’re all the way in and beside the bed before Crowley looks up, an expression of joyful disbelief lighting his face. Oh, how Aziraphale loves him.

“May I undress you? I’d like for you to undress me, as well,” Aziraphale gives voice to his desires as plainly as he can. All the books say this is important.

He watches Crowley take a centring breath, his eyes closing lightly for a split second.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

There’s nothing frantic or hurried about the way they undress each other. It’s gentle and slow, sensual at first as Aziraphale’s bow tie slips free of his collar. But Crowley’s hands are shaking as he unbuttons Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt, fumbling with more than simple nerves. Aziraphale is faring only a little better, struggling to find the edges of Crowley’s perfectly coordinating black outfit. He glances up and sees Crowley’s frustration as it threatens to spill out in tears.

He catches Crowley’s hands, calming the tremors with gentle pressure.

“Are you alright? Please, love, if this causing you any distress-”

“Damn it all, Aziraphale, I’m sorry.” Crowley sits on the bed, pulling his hands out of Aziraphale’s grip so he can hide his face. “It’s just nerves.”

Aziraphale sits beside him and rests his head on Crowley’s shoulder. After a minute, Crowley brings his hands away from his face, sending one searching for Aziraphale’s touch.

“Would it help if I do all the buttons?” Aziraphale offers, turning over possible solutions in his head.

He adjusts his expectations and hopes for the night. Sex might be too much for them both, but getting naked together, perhaps enjoying some degree of intimate touch, those are good goals for this first attempt.

When Crowley looks up at him it’s with an expression of such naked gratitude and relief that Aziraphale wants to just hold him and never let go. It’s not going to progress their plans for the evening, but Aziraphale’s heart isn’t interested in other priorities. He settles for tucking a loose strand of Crowley’s hair behind one ear as he waits for Crowley to answer.

“I- I think so. Yeah, yeah. It will.” Crowley meanders around decisiveness as if he’s expecting Aziraphale to pull the option away.

As he quickly unbuttons his waistcoat and shirt, Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s cheek and urges him to turn his head, giving Aziraphale access to his mouth. Kissing is safe and allowed, and Crowley doesn’t resist the way that Aziraphale parts his lips and teases the tip of his tongue.

Reaching for Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale invites him to slide his fingers under the layers of clothing and ease them off. With the soft, wet, velvet of Crowley’s tongue stroking against his own, Aziraphale turns his attention to Crowley’s clothing once more. He makes quick work of the buttons now that he’s working by feel rather than sight, hampered only by Crowley pushing his shirtsleeves down to his elbows.

Wriggling his arms free and smiling into Crowley’s mouth, Aziraphale’s heart sings at this progress they’ve made. He feels no less safe or content than he had at the funfair, his only concern is for Crowley’s comfort and that appears to be growing with each passing second.

He wrestles Crowley’s arms out of his shirt, giggling with the joy of it. The heat of Crowley’s body is so much more pronounced with only these two thin cotton layers between them. Their kiss is broken for mere seconds as they strip each other of their undershirts and immediately reach for one another again.

There are endless acres of bare skin for Aziraphale’s fingertips to explore and his lips are aching to join them. He encourages Crowley to sit further back on the bed and crawls into his lap, straddling Crowley’s thighs to feel the press of their bodies. 

There's a notable lack of erection pressing back into Aziraphale as he settles over Crowley's lap. His imagination runs riot with the idea of sinking his cock into Crowley's warm, wet depths.

His hands map the hills and valleys of Crowley’s back, the muscle of his shoulders and the sharp edges of his spine, all whilst kissing the breath right out him.

“You gorgeous creature,” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s lips, feeling the uncertain touch of Crowley’s hands at his waist. “I want to kiss every last inch of you, my love.”

As much as Aziraphale wants to rid them both of their remaining clothing, he can’t rush Crowley into new territory. He trails kisses away from Crowley’s lips, over his jaw, and onto his neck, all while finding places that Crowley likes to be touched. Gradually, Crowley’s hands move from their base camp at Aziraphale’s waist and stroke up and down his sides, just firm enough not to tickle. Aziraphale makes a pleased hum, holding Crowley to him as he kisses along a delectable collarbone.

To Aziraphale’s delight, Crowley’s hands walk themselves around to his belt and pause on the buckle. Crowley leans back just enough to get Aziraphale looking at him.

“Is this alright?” Crowley asks, his voice thick with desire rather than nerves.

“Yes! Yes, absolutely! Please do!” 

It’s with a wry chuckle that Crowley sets to his task, apparently having conquered his earlier nerves. Aziraphale kneels up to let Crowley slide his trousers down over his hips. There’s no graceful way to get out of trousers when you’re straddling someone, Aziraphale learns to his dismay. Laughing together about the awkwardness of it all, Crowley and Aziraphale negotiate the tangle of legs and trousers until Aziraphale is free and clad only in his underwear.

His cock is half-hard, clearly outlined by the soft cotton of his boxers. Crowley’s eyes appear to be drawn to it as if mesmerised by the evidence of Aziraphale’s arousal. He looks awed, reverent even, Aziraphale thinks with a chest full of love.

Crowley is reclined on the bed, propped up on his elbows, and Aziraphale kneels beside him. Aziraphale wants Crowley’s trousers off, now. He prefers that they stay at about the same level of nakedness, it seems more equal, safer. His hands settle on Crowley’s waistband, fingertips just curling over the top. Crowley nods and watches Aziraphale unclasp the snake head belt. Feeling under scrutiny, Aziraphale wills his hands not to shake as he opens Crowley’s fly and pulls the waistband down over Crowley’s angular hips.

Any embarrassment that Aziraphale is still feeling from his graceless disrobing is immediately banished at the sight of Crowley trying to wriggle his way out of jeans that might as well have been painted on. He does his best to help, tugging at the ankles and trying not to laugh.

Finally, Crowley grumbles and yanks his feet free of the trousers before sending them sailing across the room to land little more than a centimetre shy of the laundry basket. It’s adorable, really, Aziraphale decides as he lies beside Crowley and kisses his shoulder.

They’ve never been this naked together. Not during all the time they’ve been living together have they had reason to be so undressed in each others presence. Now, in just their underwear, there’s an expanse of meaningful silence between them. If there’s one hurdle that Aziraphale has worried about the most, it’s this one, this baring all to each other and not flinching away.

He knows that Crowley loves him, that he finds Aziraphale attractive and desirable. These aren’t concerns that occur to Aziraphale at all. He worries about how they’ll both react to this physical vulnerability after spending so long building up their boundaries.

“You’re beautiful, Crowley. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s shoulder.

He moves closer, bringing their bodies together until the hard lines of Crowley are pressed against him. Crowley is breathing calmly, his pulse is steady, he’s giving every indication of being relaxed and comfortable. Still, Aziraphale worries. Slowly, Crowley rolls on to his side, coming to face Aziraphale and gazing at him with open adoration.

“Never gonna get used to you saying stuff like that, you know?” Crowley says with a smile, a pink blush blossoming across his cheeks.

Aziraphale kisses him again, finding the courage to bring his hand up to Crowley’s hip and stroke along the bare skin of his torso. Crowley shivers under his touch, a low moan rumbling in his throat.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks again, still anxious, still worrying.

“Fuck, Aziraphale, yes. Kiss me again. Come here.” Crowley pulls Aziraphale over, encouraging him to straddle Crowley’s hips and kiss him into the bed.

Crowley’s hands roam all over Aziraphale’s back, softly stroking and petting him for long stretches and then grabbing hold of his buttocks or hips to urge an increased intensity from Aziraphale’s kiss.

Captivated and intoxicated by the waves of  _ want _ that are rolling off Crowley, Aziraphale gives in to the passion and urgency, rolling his hips downward into Crowley, his erection hard and thick between them.

Shivers of pleasure thrill through Aziraphale at the contact, he seeks it again, grinding down into Crowley’s pelvis as they kiss and paw at each other, committing each new inch of skin to memory.

“Off. Pants off, now.” Aziraphale gasps into Crowley’s mouth, desperate to feel the heat of him pressed against his cock.

They strip these last items off, not caring about grace or appearances as they remove their last barriers, so ready to finally be completely naked with each other. Aziraphale is aching have Crowley against him, to feel their mutual arousal growing together until they can finally join in love and security. He’s back on top of Crowley as soon as he’s able, kissing his throat and collarbones to wring more delectable little moans from him.

This time, he doesn’t straddle Crowley. Aziraphale uses a knee to urge Crowley’s thighs apart so he can settle there and feel Crowley against him. His cock is straining hard and hot, aching for a home within the embrace of Crowley’s body.

A slender hand skates down Aziraphale’s side as the other cradles the back of his head. It finds a gap between their bodies and darts in, taking Aziraphale in hand and stroking the length of his erection. Crowley’s lips curve in their kiss, swallowing the eager gasp that escapes Aziraphale with a smile.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asks in a quiet, raw voice. “Tell me how you want this.”

Aziraphale struggles to find the words, to find his voice as Crowley’s hand idly strokes up and down his cock. He forces himself to concentrate, focusing on Crowley’s softened features.

“I want to be inside you, Crowley. Would that be alright?”

Crowley makes a noise that human throats simply aren’t capable of. It sounds affirmative but Aziraphale can’t be satisfied with that, not after everything they’ve been through.

“Darling, I need clear communication.”

Lord, but it was hard to form complete sentences with Crowley stroking him like this. Aziraphale swallows hard and tries to regain his focus as Crowley stumbles around various consonant sounds on his way to a response.

“Would my mouth be enough?” Crowley asks, finally.

He sounds ashamed, afraid of being a disappointment, and frustrated all at once. Aziraphale pushes himself up onto his hands to get a better look at Crowley’s face. He won’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze and that seals it.

Aziraphale moves from between Crowley’s thighs and lies beside him once more.

“What’s the matter? Come here, love, let me hold you and listen.” He holds out his arms, inviting Crowley to find comfort with him.

Looking stricken and distraught, Crowley shakes his head.

“I can’t do it, Aziraphale. I want to, I really do,” he swallows hard before finally meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “I can’t manifest genitals, not at all. I want to give you this but every time I try, I feel like my heart’s going to explode.”

“Oh, my darling. It’s alright.” Crowley allows Aziraphale to gather him in his arms at this, curling into Aziraphale’s chest like a lost child. “Nothing is more important than your comfort and happiness. Nothing at all.” Aziraphale pauses to press kisses into Crowley’s hair, trying to pour love and reassurance into each one. “You did so well, look at how far we got together tonight! That’s incredible, I think!”

Crowley sobs into Aziraphale’s chest, turning his face to muffle the sound.

“’M sorry, angel. Didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never, my love. Never.”

In times gone by, Crowley would have wailed that this was all backwards and that Aziraphale shouldn’t be reassuring him, that Crowley didn’t deserve this much understanding and compassion. It’s been months since that topic had last risen its nasty little head but Aziraphale is ever on the lookout for it, braced and armed with an arsenal of rebuttals. If it was going to come back, it would be now. Crowley sniffles and rubs his face against Aziraphale’s arm, settling into a more comfortable position.

“Love you, angel. Can we just lie like this for a while?”

Aziraphale beams, his relief and joy, and pride at Crowley’s progress almost palpable in the air.

“Of course we can. I’d like nothing more.”

Aziraphale draws the duvet up over both of them and turned the lights off with a snap of his fingers. Bit by bit, he feels Crowley relax against him until he’s certain that Crowley has fallen asleep. Only then does he allow himself to drift off, tangled up in Crowley’s love and about as far from disappointed as it is possible to be.

When morning arrives, Aziraphale wakes slowly to the realisation that Crowley is no longer in his arms. Without opening his eyes, he stretches out a hand across the bed until his fingers find the solid warmth of Crowley’s skin.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley sounds far happier than Aziraphale had expected.

He cracks open an eye just as the bed shifts with Crowley’s movement, sliding back down under the covers in a way that suggests he’d been sitting up.

“Morning,” Aziraphale mumbles, still groggy from his deep sleep. “You seem to be in a good mood.”

Crowley kisses him and Aziraphale can feel the shape of Crowley’s smile pressed into his lips.

“I am, I am. Can I show you something?” Crowley pulls away enough that Aziraphale can see the shadow of uncertainty around his eyes.

Whatever it is that Crowley wants to show him, he’s nervous about being rejected or wrong, somehow.

“Of course, my love. Do I need to get up? Because that might take a moment.”

Crowley shakes his head and bites his bottom lip. Intrigued, Aziraphale pushes himself up on to his elbows and gives Crowley his full attention, both eyes open and clear of sleep at once. With his slender fingers gripping the top of the duvet, Crowley visibly steels himself and pushes the bedding down his body.

Somehow, he finds a speed that is neither suggestive of a striptease nor a flash, revealing his still-nude body just slowly enough to betray his nerves. Where, last night, Crowley had the anatomy of an action figure he now sported a perfectly ordinary penis, laying flaccid against his thigh.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, awestruck by the meaning rather than the appendage. “You didn’t have to!”

“Wanted to, really,” Crowley shrugs. “Hadn’t realised that it was an issue until last night. I, uh, I haven’t been comfortable with one for a while so, y’know...” He trails off, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale does know, he knows too well how meaningful this is for both of them. It’s all he can do to kiss Crowley again, winding his arms around Crowley’s neck and bringing their bodies flush against each other. It’s only when he feels Crowley press his hips forward in a manner that can only be described as suggestive that Aziraphale breaks away and cups Crowley’s face in his hands.

“My stance hasn’t changed since last night but you must be sure, Crowley. Don’t rush this on my behalf, please.” Aziraphale pleads, looking into golden eyes and trying to impart the seriousness of his words.

“Angel, please,” Crowley pushes his face through Aziraphale’s hands to bring their lips together for a gentle kiss. “I want you so much. Last night was,  _ heh _ , just performance anxiety. I’m all good now.” He rolls his hips against Aziraphale, demonstrating his willingness with the growing hardness of his cock.

Aziraphale uses every ounce of self-restraint he possesses and shuffles back just enough to put some space between them. He needs to be able to think clearly, to check his own emotional reaction to this before going further. One false move could send them tumbling back and undoing months- years- of recovery. Crowley doesn’t chase him across the bed, waiting and patient just within reach. He won’t push, Aziraphale knows, and that calms him more than anything else. This is a choice that they will make together.

“Oh, Crowley, you delicious thing. I love you beyond words.” Aziraphale leans in for another kiss, immediately parting his lips and licking into Crowley’s mouth.

Slowly, Crowley draws Aziraphale on top of him, running his hands over every inch of skin he can reach in the process. As ever, they rely on the safe familiarity of kissing to soften the shock of broaching new territory.

When Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock, he kisses the gasp right out of Crowley’s mouth. The delighted noise that Aziraphale makes at feeling Crowley grow hard within his grasp is muffled between their joined lips. Aziraphale trails his kisses down Crowley’s body, scattering his love like freckles across the warm skin of his lover and feeling it reflected back tenfold.

Aziraphale is as hard as rock by the time he kisses down to Crowley’s cock, his hips rock against the mattress without even recognising the desire that drives the movement. All he can think about is Crowley’s proud erection, solid and stiff, so close to his hungry lips.

Aziraphale is sure that his technique leaves a lot to be desired, no one is an expert on their first try after all, but the way that Crowley cries out when Aziraphale takes him into his mouth is intensely gratifying. He tries to remember to suck, and cover his teeth, and use his tongue, and all the things he read in that six-month-old copy of  _ Cosmopolitan _ he’d picked up at his manicurist that one time. It’s all rather a lot to do at once and much of it is contradictory but Crowley is straining to keep his hips from rocking up and clutching at the sheets so tightly that they might tear, so Aziraphale thinks he’s probably doing well enough.

He pulls off, swallows the saliva that’s been pooling in his mouth and looks up at Crowley’s dumbstruck face.

“Crowley, darling, how do you feel right now about the idea of me making love to you?”

If Crowley had looked dazed before, it pales in comparison to the flustered, speechless, flailing look that he develops immediately following Aziraphale’s question. He huffs, whines, hides his face in his hands, and makes a noise that sounds a little like an Enochian curse word before he can bring himself to answer. Aziraphale waits out this little demonstration, amusing himself with flicking his tongue against the head of Crowley’s cock which, on retrospect, might not have aided the process.

“ _ Please _ , Aziraphale. I want it, please.” Crowley near begs, silenced only by Aziraphale sucking him back into his mouth.

Reaching out a hand towards Crowley, Aziraphale flexes his fingers in a grabbing motion. He can see the moment that realisation blooms and Crowley scrabbles for the bottle of lube that Aziraphale insists on keeping in the drawer of the bedside table. He’s smug and vindicated as he takes the bottle, managing to express this with his mouth full of Crowley’s cock.

Smearing the lube on his fingers without abandoning his task of sucking and licking those delectable moans from Crowley proves to be tricky but not impossible. Before long, Aziraphale is teasing Crowley’s hole with one slick fingertip, rubbing little circles around the tight muscle until he feels Crowley relax into it.

A drop of pre-come spreads across his tongue as he breaches Crowley for the first time, pressing his index finger into the impossibly hot embrace of Crowley’s body. It’s something truly unusual, a taste that Aziraphale has never experienced before, and it’s delicious. Salty, bitter, and so perfectly  _ Crowley _ .

“Oh, fuck. Aziraphale, you- you can’t make your macaron noise right now!” Crowley stammers from somewhere above him.

Pulling off Crowley’s erection, swiping his tongue across the head for good measure, Aziraphale meets Crowley’s gaze. He’s gently rocking his hand, fucking Crowley slowly on one finger, and his other hand comes to curl around Crowley’s saliva-slick cock.

“I can’t?” he asks, his face the very picture of angelic innocence even as his hands take Crowley apart by fractions.

“You’re trying to kill me. I know you are.” Crowley throws his head back into the pillows and slings one arm across his face as if he can hide.

Aziraphale’s hands still as he takes in the sight of Crowley whimpering and straining away from him. Gently, he pulls his finger free and releases Crowley’s cock.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

He’s never seen Crowley so out of sorts, flushed red from his hair to his chest and biting his lips hard enough to leave marks.

“Oh, damn it all, Aziraphale! Don’t stop! I’m fine. I’m more than fine! You’re incredible, please!” Crowley fixes him with a wild, fiery stare, his whole face expressing his deep-seated want.

That convinces Aziraphale as much as anything could. His hips roll into the mattress again, surprising himself with the sudden rush of sensation as much as with the realisation that he’d stopped his mindless rutting some time ago, focused as he is on Crowley.

Aziraphale slides two slippery fingers into Crowley this time, stretching him open with all the care he can muster whilst showering Crowley’s straining cock with kisses and licks, keeping him at the peak of his arousal. He’s enjoying this so much that he quite loses track of time.

“Angel, please, don’t make me beg.”

Aziraphale looks up in surprise, Crowley’s whining plea seems to have come out of nowhere but now he sees the way Crowley is kicking at the sheets, gripping the pillows with claw-like fingers, and gritting his teeth against the pressure that Aziraphale has been building in him.

“My love, of course I won’t,” Aziraphale soothes as he shifts position, crawling up Crowley’s body until his hips are just below Crowley’s.

“Thank you,” Crowley whispers, tears in his eyes.

Aziraphale strokes himself briefly, smearing lubricant along the length of his cock as Crowley’s words sink in.

It’s not just a thank you for ending his current wait. It’s a thank you for staying, for going through this awful recovery with him, for not giving up on him, for loving him through all the difficult times. It’s a thank you that didn’t ever need to be voiced, Aziraphale can’t imagine a universe where he wouldn’t have stuck with Crowley through this. They need each other, have always needed each other, they complete each other.

With a lump in his throat and an excess of love in his heart, Aziraphale begins to press into Crowley’s tight hole. He’s unsurprised when Crowley surges up from the bed, seeking his lips for a kiss that feels almost indecently intimate. This is right and, in a thousand different ways, it’s healing. They are choosing this, sharing this moment together.

Aziraphale moves slowly, judging by Crowley’s shuddering breaths and needy whimpers when he can sink a little deeper and when he needs to pause. He can feel Crowley’s hunger nipping at him, urging him to take, take, take, but resisting the temptation is one of the easiest things he’s done, knowing that they both need the care.

It’s a slow, steady fucking that Aziraphale settles into, giving Crowley all the gentleness he’d never ask for, never think he deserves. It’s perfect, being joined so intimately in love and respect and trust. Aziraphale thinks that he could stay like this forever, slowly fucking into Crowley and enjoying the barely controlled wildness of his reactions. He writhes and whines, clutching at Aziraphale’s arms and pulling him back down into kisses, rocking his hips up to meet Aziraphale’s thrusts.

Almost as one, the gradually building pleasure grips them both with an urgency that comes from nowhere.

“Crowley, love, I’m close,” Aziraphale pants, his forehead creased in concentration as he controls his speed.

“Yes, fuck, Aziraphale. Please come inside me. I want it.” Crowley’s hand closes around his own red, leaking cock as he makes his plea.

Aziraphale picks up his pace almost automatically, driven on by the obscenely erotic vision of Crowley stroking himself in time with Aziraphale’s thrusts. With Crowley’s name on his lips, Aziraphale finds his release and spills hot and deep inside Crowley. His vision suffers a momentary snowstorm as he shivers through his orgasm, slamming his hips into Crowley far harder than he had planned.

Beneath Aziraphale’s quaking body, Crowley falls over his own edge, gasping and splashing his stomach with come. When Aziraphale lowers himself to kiss Crowley’s slack mouth, the mess smears wetly between them and cools too quickly on their heated skin.

Finally, Aziraphale lets himself fall to Crowley’s side and untangles their legs. He mops up most of the mess with tissues from the bedside table, only stopping when Crowley worms his way into an embrace and rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Lay with me awhile, yeah?” Crowley asks, the slightest tremor in his voice.

“Of course, love, of course.”

Aziraphale buries his nose in Crowley’s hair and breathes deeply, wanting to remember every single detail of this event.

Later, they’ll sit at their kitchen table and talk about it over a pot of tea. Crowley will blush and stammer when Aziraphale insists upon hearing his thoughts in detail. Aziraphale will use outdated language and at least one euphemism so obscure that Crowley has to ask for clarification. It’s a big step they’ve taken, one that they weren’t sure would ever come to pass, but they also know that healing is a process that may never end.

In a century or so, one might find Aziraphale and Crowley walking hand-in-hand through the streets of a small, seaside town. Much has changed, but everything that matters is still as it should be. Aziraphale loves Crowley. Crowley loves Aziraphale. Sometimes, Aziraphale will still jump if Crowley hugs him from behind. Crowley will perform linguistic gymnastics to avoid saying that he deserves something. They have each other, they are happy, they are safe, they have built a fortress of happy memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave them there. It's better now.
> 
> Thank you to Narumikaiko for the beta reading, you helped me create a better story.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about that, I was going through some stuff and processed it through Crowley.
> 
> Maybe go read [Queer Omens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532582) now for something fluffy?


End file.
